


One Long Night

by krowe (k_rowe)



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics), Red Robin (Comics)
Genre: Also a little drunk, Language, M/M, Protective Jason
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-27
Updated: 2017-12-27
Packaged: 2019-02-22 12:28:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13166919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/k_rowe/pseuds/krowe
Summary: Jason struggles with Tim's injuries and copes poorly.





	One Long Night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [candybarrnerd](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=candybarrnerd), [icarusinflight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/icarusinflight/gifts).



The door key scraped the lock several times with drunken fingers, and Jason swore several loud oaths before he realized the key he was trying to cram in the deadbolt, was the wrong one. He thumbed through the key ring clumsily with one hand; the other tight on a cup of hot coffee. Just when he’d thought he’d found the key he wanted, he fumbled his Lego Red Robin keychain with a loving pause, and dropped the whole set of keys. Making to kneel to pick them up, he overbalanced and tipped the coffee right out of his hand.

 

“Fuck,” said Jason. Then, again, louder, “fuck—!” when he tried to pick up the keys and found they were scalding from the spilt coffee.

 

A neighbor leered at Jason through the slit of her open door. She was in a faded nightgown and loose robe. “It is four in the god damn morning, Asshole. Some of us have jobs.” She slammed her door.

 

Jason winced a little from the sound. “Bitch,” he said, but quietly, and settled resignedly on the doormat, backed up against the door. Jason was just mastering his dizziness when he heard muffled noises from inside. The deadbolt turned over and the door pulled inward, dumping Jason into the entryway with a groan.

 

“Babe?” said Tim with surprise.

 

Jason rolled from his side to the flat of his back and looked up into Tim’s bewildered face. Tim’s hair was rumpled and falling over his pretty blue eyes. And, to Jason’s pain, he saw that the bruise had not gotten better; Tim’s pale, freckled cheeks were blotched by green and purple fields and the rings under his eyes were darker than ever. His split lip looked raw, too. And then, forlornly, Jason looked at the knee brace. The sling for his bad shoulder. The crutch under his good arm. Jason’s stomach rolled with sick but if it was because he drank too much or some other reason, he couldn’t say. “I couldn’t find my key,” said Jason. They both looked at the keys on the ground, then Tim looked again at Jason.

 

“What on earth are you doing here?”

 

“I live here.” Jason heaved himself over to his side, arms scrambling as the room seemed to turn. Tim stood back to give him room. Jason eventually staggered to one knee and groped for something to hold onto. Tim offered his good arm, which Jason graciously accepted. It was a near thing, one man drunk, one in crutches, but they got Jason to his feet and together shuffled to the kitchen. When he’d propped Jason up on a bar stool, Tim hobbled back to the entryway to collect Jason’s keys from the doormat and the empty coffee cup. He navigated the chore with an odd grace for a one-armed, one-legged, half-blind thing.

 

“Tim, don’t— let me get that. I can—” Jason swerved standing up to get the keys. Tim swatted Jason’s shin with his crutch on the return trip.

 

“Sit down. Jesus. It’s a wonder you made it home at all.” Tim dumped the keys in a dish with a sigh and recycled the mug. “Did you want any more coffee? I’m putting some on now.”

 

“God, Tim. I’m sorry I woke you up.” Jason rubbed his face, like you rub out a stain. “I didn’t mean to.”

 

Tim tipped the grounds into the filter with a wry smile. “Hell. I wasn’t sleeping.” 

 

“What do you mean?

 

“How could I? I’ve been hailing you on comms for hours.” Tim seemed unnerved by Jason’s apparent incomprehension, so he prompted, emphatically, “You’re _supposed_ to be in Blüdhaven.” Tim sat in a stool across the island from Jason.

 

Jason shrugged and slouched in his seat. “Well, I’m not.”

 

“No shit.” Tim eyed Jason critically but didn’t get the rise he seemed to want. “I had to call in Nightwing and Robin,” said Tim, determinedly off-handedly.

 

A nerve throbbed behind Jason’s left eye. “You didn’t have to.”

 

“Black Mask wasn’t going to sit on those guns. Someone had to be there for the buy.” Tim wiggled his arm in the sling and then flinched in pain to prove his point, “Not me, obviously. But we couldn’t just let him _sell_ them and get away with it. You and I have been on this shipment for weeks.” Protracted silence. “ _Well?_ ”

 

“It’s not like Deathstroke was going to be there,” said Jason brusquely and waved a hand dismissively.

 

“What?” Tim straightened in his seat.

 

“A contact in Helsinki, she reported seeing him yesterday. So there was no point in babysitting some small-time gangster—”

 

Tim looked apoplectic. “’Small time’?” Tim pinched his nose. “Black Mask will sell those guns domestic and fast because we forced his hand and people right here will die, Jason.” Tim made a fist with his good hand and struck the kitchen counter. Jason saw that the gesture made Tim's whole body rattle, and that Tim tried hard not to betray real pain. “Deathstroke is not our enemy right now.”

 

“He is my only enemy," said Jason darkly. He bolted forward on his stool, swaying just a little. He pointed an imperious finger at Tim but the dramatic effect was diminished by a sudden loss of balance. He scrambled to regain it. “That son of a bitch will never lay one fucking finger on you again.”

 

“Jesus Christ, Jay.” Tim started to laugh, if a little hysterically. “Is that what this is about? I swear to God, it’s not as bad as it looks.”

 

“You look like shit,” said Jason.

 

Tim blushed a little. “You look like a good fuck.”

 

Jason blushed a lot. And pretended that he didn’t. “Don’t be absurd.”

 

Tim dismounted his stool and, leaving his crutch behind, imitated his best natural walk, with marginal success, toward Jason. He faltered on the last step with too much weight on his dislocated knee and fell into Jason’s arms. He laughed a little and Jason smiled in spite of his creased brow. Tim slung his good arm around Jason’s neck and pecked him by the ear. “You’re the one that said I needed to do _physical therapy_.” Tim smiled conspiratorially and Jason snorted. “Since you’re taking the night off, anyway.”

 

Jason dropped his forehead to Tim’s and pressed them gently. He hooked an arm around Tim’s waist and pulled him closer. Smelt the sweat and sweet of him. The faded notes of cologne from their stay-at-home date two days ago and the sea salt chips he must have been eating last. The bitter smell of coffee on Tim that always reminded Jason of home and sex and work and life. All twining with the traces of alcohol on Jason’s breath and his day old shampoo, the brand Tim loved so much. Jason closed his eyes and for the first time in days he didn’t see the repeating reel of Deathstroke overpowering Tim when his attention was split for a moment; the little heap Tim’s body made at Deathstroke’s feet when the man was done beating him.

 

When Jason closed his eyes this time, he saw Tim sleeping off the painkillers with a buzzed smile. And Tim proudly demonstrating the improvement in his knee’s rotation, like a cheesy commercial model. And the sculpt of Tim’s bare shoulders, how pale and kissable.

 

“Physical therapy, right?” Jason kissed Tim’s forehead.

 

“Doctor’s orders,” said Tim.

 

“Alfred also said to get a lot of sleep.”

 

“Only if you're there next to me."

 

“Forever."

**Author's Note:**

> Based on prompts "comfort" and "rest day". I guess Tim comforted Jason more than Jason Tim, as I meant. Whoops.


End file.
